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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28569792">Backseat Driving</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/EuroEngram/pseuds/EuroEngram'>EuroEngram</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Jackie Welles/Male V, Johnny Silverhand Being An Asshole, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Slight Spoilers For Act 1, Trans Male Character, Trans V, Vaginal Fingering, Vomiting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:15:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,997</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28569792</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/EuroEngram/pseuds/EuroEngram</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He appears in the threshold, leaning against the trim with a hand-rolled cigarette dangling between his lips. His gaze slowly inclines towards the ceiling, not paying you so much as a glance. Like you’re shit on the sidewalk. </p><p>“Just saying, I could make this a whole lot more bearable for the both of us.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Implied Male V/Jackie Welles, Johnny Silverhand/Male V</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Backseat Driving</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>/Tw/ for transphobic language .</p><p>Enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You had a dream the night before you visited Jackie’s ofrenda. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You saw him there just as he was before the end, twisting and moaning like a beaten dog against the opaque leather, all while you shouted at Delamain to get you off the streets and take you home. But Jackie didn’t bleed out on your shoulder with a well-wishing goodbye on his pale, blood spattered lips. Instead, he stuck a barrel between his teeth and squeezed until the swells of his brain painted the rear window. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His consciousness floated for a minute; watched you watch him bounce back and forth as the car swerved, limp and dangling until it all went still. And then, he told you how it felt. When he explained it to you, he said the chamber tasted like salt. His lips felt like powder when you touched them, grainy like sand, tangy with the singe of gunpowder. The surrealism of loss unaccounted for; bitter, but benign. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your dejection grew malignant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should invite her over to the table. Buy her a drink. It’s the least she deserves, Mama.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hand should feel warm on your shoulder, but it doesn’t. It’s cold instead, like she had it stuck in a freezer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, she smiles, her crow’s feet ugly and taut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a great man, V. I will do that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she doesn’t. You walk away and watch over your shoulder how her eyes drift back to his picture on the ofrenda. Sailboats to their lighthouse upon an endless sea. She’s detached herself, and you don’t blame her for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You do it yourself, tentatively. Find your elbows docking on the bartop first, brushing against egos that refuse to move from their stools. Viktor tells you he’s tired of meeting like this. Padre says this isn’t the place for business. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few shots, a man’s mind always drifts back to a woman. Doesn’t have to be any one woman in particular, sure, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>she's</span>
  </em>
  <span> there, still emanating Jackie’s stench of hot iron and tequila shots. You’re swaying by her side before you know it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two black sheep by the street’s edge, away from the party. You’re near smashed and she hasn’t touched a drop. Drowning in her own ways instead, misery festering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You doin’ alright?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m...  managing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looks at you, sees the way your voracious eyes wander, wondering if her collarbone still smells and tastes like Jackie’s cologne. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should go home, V. Get some rest. You’re plate’s full enough without all of - </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she says, gesturing to El Coyote Cojo’s neon sign. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You laugh, cynical and ironic. “Don’t worry about me, Misty. Shit like this - it’s just another day in the biz’. It’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to be.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stare at her smudged eyeshadow and wonder how many times Jackie made those lashes clump and stick. How often they fucked in Viktor’s seedy basement, sweat and the smell of sex coating the cybernetics you’ve got shoved into your limbs right now. You wonder where she gets off parading around like a widow. You wonder when you started being so goddamn sentimental-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw what Mama Welles gave you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your head jerks up, spine stiff, seeing your corrupt thoughts drifting around the two of you. Cyclical and salacious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t say I would have done differently. You two had somethin’ special.” She sighs, hugging her knees. “You were like his rock. I know he would want you to have it; keep the engine hot, clean.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like he never even left.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes flick over to you from their idle watering. Belatedly, she flattens her lips, nods her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, yeah… He would want it that way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wonder what he </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> wanted. What plagued his lonely nights when she wasn’t around. What urges filled his mind in their stead when she </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span>. All the ways she distracted him-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna go back inside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stands, smoothing down her skimpy skirt that still shows enough thigh you can almost see the tramp stamp on her ass cheek. She looks uncomfortable, walks past you with her fingers tightly on the hem, keeping it low as she can. Hiding herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’ll warm up to it, you figure. She’s just grieving. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time she’s inside, you’re snuffing out your cigarette against the palm of your hand, humming when it doesn’t feel like much of anything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You slink off to Jackie’s garage and fumble with the lock, hardly make it inside before you’re gagging from being kneeled over too long. You taste lime and sea salt on your lips, the scorching remains of a dozen shots rising up your throat. It smells too damn much like him here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The engine is a melodic rumble between your thighs, thrumming evenly. A tempo unrivaled by all the riveting garage-band rock you’ve ever heard, amplified by a haze of intoxication. His bike seat still feels warm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Night City’s air is cool. It’s breezy enough that you almost forget the permanent stench of piss and sex to it. You ride all the way back to your apartment with your eyes lidded, and run every red light you can along the way, quietly asking whatever god’ll hear you to show you not a highway, but a staircase. Show you Jackie’s five o’clock shadow and his dopey grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The truth is; you have nothing left to give anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was never </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> about Jackie. It was about you, and the life you were born living, and the one you kept fighting to keep because it was all you knew. The inspirations that generated motivation. The ‘everything’ that ensured you never stopped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Jackie, there was less to live for. More pondering the greater losses, fewer reasons to live. You were slower on the uptake, never could find any balance. Jackie sped things up, slowed them down when he knew you needed the time. He made it all bearable</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>god</span>
  </em>
  <span>, how high he wanted you two to go-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck are you gonna do now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re talking to yourself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re on your knees vomiting over a tiled floor, slinging saliva and bile from your loose lips and wiping your chin. You aim for the toilet bowl, forcing yourself to eye those hideous dark streaks along the rim, telling yourself it’ll help, and it does. After the second wave of nausea dissipates, you can’t stand the feel of your own clothes against your sweat-soaked skin. You’re throwing your jacket across the room and crawling to the shower before you know it, groaning when you can’t reach the nozzle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well aren’t you quite the sight. I should take a fuckin’ picture.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He appears in the threshold, leaning against the trim with a hand-rolled cigarette dangling between his lips. His gaze slowly inclines towards the ceiling, not paying you so much as a glance. Like shit on the sidewalk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You groan, and he flicks it at you with this typical type of inelegance you’ve come to expect from him. He still makes it look charming, gives it that Johnny-esq flair. Suggestive in its own way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No need, thanks,” you reply, spitting especially viscous saliva into the shower drain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He makes a dispassionate noise. “Thought you might want memorabilia of the occasion. It’s cute - how you stopped washing your ass when your little partner bit the bullet.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You let go of a sigh that morphs into a laugh - something dry, ironic. He always makes a mockery of what ails you; moreso what drives you over the edge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry I ain’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>socio</span>
  </em>
  <span> enough for you,” you say, biting the ends off your words. “It must be nice - not giving a shit about anyone but yourself.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More than nice. It’s downright </span>
  <em>
    <span>peachy, </span>
  </em>
  <span>cupcake.” He snorts dryly, pushing his shades up the bridge of his nose. You see his lame and infrequent attempts at humor as his own form of masturbation; it’s all he can manage, given his lack of a corporeal form.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s predictable that way. Methodical in his demeanor. You’ve come to see it as a ritual - a reminder that you’re still here, sill seeing ghosts, if nothing else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You follow the line of his flesh bicep, to the curve of his cupid’s bow that presses his top lip into his lower one. You lick your own lips unconsciously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes it upon himself to fill the silence, which isn’t new. He’s always the one to make shit about him; be the star of the show, wanted or not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mourning doesn’t look good on you, kid.” He says it like it’s a damn shame, shakes his head and inclines his chin. Arrogant, </span>
  <em>
    <span>enticing-</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You spit at his boots and he nods, as if you’ve proven his point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck do you know about me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You kidding me? I see every thought that passes through your head, and let me tell you…” he kneels at your level and takes off his shades, and you reflexively draw your legs up to your chest. “It’s a fuckin’ shitshow up there. Unironically speaking. Has been for weeks now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No shit? You’re not exactly helping, are you?” you retort, but the edge to your tone slips away, leaving a hollow feeling in your chest; meekness in your expression when you can’t help but look at your feet, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just sayin’, it doesn’t fit someone like you. Blame’s on my end for expectin’ any different from a little street-pansy such as yourself.” He tilts his head with consideration, pops the collar of your jacket like a suit he can’t wait to try on. “You oughta try somethin’ new. Move on already.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A fiery quip crawls up your throat, only to die against the back of your teeth. You can’t think of a time he’s ever stared at you this long. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Considered</span>
  </em>
  <span> you at length. A time you weren’t anything more than a muted voice, or another face in an audience of disillusioned fans. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You hate how you can see every one of his micro-expressions plain as day. His melodramatic flair. The way his throat bobs as he swallows. How he flattens his lips when you don’t argue back, disappointed, expecting more- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kneels there, watching you squirm before slowly standing, idly thumbing the arms of his shades. He puts them on, letting you realize how much you prefer their glimmer under fluorescents to the actual organic eyes below. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Suit yourself.” He docks his hands on his hips. “Wise-ass little shit like you doesn’t let anyone else get a word in edgewise anyway. Betcha’ can't help yourself, makin’ all this about you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think I’m pulling all of this out of my ass, Johnny? What, this too </span>
  <em>
    <span>emotional</span>
  </em>
  <span> for you?” You chew on your words, spitting them out like venom. “Sorry we ain’t all as perfect as you are. Sucks to be human, I guess,” you retort bitterly, snorting. “Not like you’d know shit about that anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Riight, cause I don’t remember the human condition and all that mushy shit between our ears. All the urges. Makes you stupid, it does.” He inclines his head, lips drawing back to reveal a sliver of teeth, smirking. “The difference between you and I, is that I never faked my attachments. Never tried to be someone I wasn’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sharp noise of disbelief jabs the inside of your throat. You narrow your eyes, brow meeting furiously. “Doesn’t make me stupid, caring about someone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah,” he says, tone patronizing. “Makes you real fuckin’ dumb though when you convince yourself it’s love.” He leans against the bathroom cabinet, one leather heel crossed over the point of his boot. “Like I said - urges, and all that,” he taps the side of his head, square over his temple, “I remember it all. Remember how dull the senses become when you get hopped up on adrenaline-highs and eddie-fever. Makes you see a lover in a partner. A soulmate in someone’s daughter - or son, in this case.” He waves dismissively. “Same shit.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You laugh humorlessly, throwing your head back against the shower wall with a thud. “Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course</span>
  </em>
  <span> you’d see it that way. Oh, the cynical little rocker boy… life full ‘a groupies and one-night stands. Sorry to burst your bubble, Jack,” you glare at him, clumsily uprighting yourself, “But I’m not - </span>
  <em>
    <span>ah</span>
  </em>
  <span>, fuck - </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> like you. You’re a goddamn parasite livin’ inside my frontal lobe. Nothing more.” You make your way to the door, brushing against his chrome bicep as you pass. “Fuckin’ poltergeist like you deserved the dirt-nap you were given. World doesn’t need people like you anymore.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your hand slides down the wall as you attempt to lower yourself onto your mattress, causing you to fall, knee hitting the box-spring. You inhale sharply, curling onto your side against the bed. You’re glaring, spitting venom like the two of you are still face-to-face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I sure as shit don’t need you. Don’t need Jackie, either…” you mumble, crawling under the sheets, vision suddenly swimming. “Could find a million ‘a you on the streets. Just warm fuckin’ bodies, fillin’ the void.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words exiting your mouth detach themselves from you, from your intentions. They sting, nipping at your throat like horse flies pestering you until you start swatting. You don’t mean them, but it’s a convenient lie to live, pretending that no one means anything to you. Untrue as it may be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jackie was never a filler. His voice carried weight, and his opinions - his desires, inspirations - trumped yours tenfold in terms of importance, as far as you were concerned. He kept you two shoulder-to-shoulder, but you always felt a step behind him; always stuck tugging at his belt after a big heist and loving how he pulled back, played hard to get, left you wanting </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck me…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You can hear Johnny laughing somewhere across the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You bury your face in the sheets, letting them scrunch up and absorb all the sweat suddenly staining your brow. An uncomfortable knot forms in the pit of your stomach, jabbing at your naval from the inside out. The sensation trickles, courses It’s way south until you’re shoving a fist between your thighs and groaning to stifle the anguish. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You feel the bed shift at your side, unsure quite </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Johnny clicks his tongue. “You’re a real piece of work.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A bitter laugh squeezes its way past your gritted teeth. “Like you’re on to talk…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can make it a little easier for you, you know. If you let me have the reins for a while.” You feel his eyes scrutinizing your flushed face, judging your every selfish imperfection. “You look like a break might do you some good. Give you some time to work out all that shit swimming around in that head of yours.” He sounds uncomfortably genuine. “Might give you some perspective, even.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t act like you want </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit</span>
  </em>
  <span> for me,” you snap back. “I’m not gonna hand myself over and let you make me your bitch, asshole. You’d probably put a gram of lead up the roof of my mouth if I did.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, ‘cause I know that would solve all of our problems.” You feel him shift, inching closer. “Just sayin’, I could make this a whole lot more bearable for the both of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You think for a moment, before shaking your head. “There is no </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Johnny. Not after you tried to paint the wall with my grey matter. End of discussion.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You turn over, curling into yourself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You and Jackie used to get so shit-faced on tequila shots and Claire’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Silverhand Special</span>
  </em>
  <span> back at the Afterlife that it’s practically Pavlovian at this point, just how fired up it gets you. Except now, it’s a thickly-woven knot of feverish arousal, right next to a whole lot of pain. The type that’s so strong, you can’t tell if you wanna cry, or vomit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You hate how compelling Johnny’s offer sounds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re trembling, fisting the flesh of your inner thigh and casting a look back at him like he’s a beast waiting to pounce. You exhale, turning back over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, if I </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>hand you the wheel for a while,” you start, cautiously eyeing him. “What would you do? I mean… what’d you have in mind?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lip snags on an incisor, no more modest a smirk than he’s ever given. “Nothin’ too special. Could alleviate that hard-on between your thighs to begin with.” He laughs, sneering. “Figuratively speaking, of course. Know you don’t have a real cock to play with. Not like I mind - women are more my speed anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You groan, your face heating at an unprecedented rate. “Fuck you.” You turn over and bury your face in the pillows. “I changed my mind - you’re not takin’ Jack-shit from me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Johnny rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a buzzkill, sweetheart. I meant it in a good way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck is a ‘good way’? You just sound like a dick.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, don’t be pissy about it.” His hand ghosts across your hip, wayward fingers venturing too close to your crotch for comfort. “Assume I’m fifty years out of practice on the bedroom talk. Cut me some slack.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You jerk away from his hand, snapping. “Fuckin’ ghost off!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, kid, I’m sorry I got your panties all twisted over my crude comment,” he says sardonically, pumping his fingers. “But that ain’t the point of this. If you’d stop flappin’ your gums and let me fix this little issue of yours, we’d both be preem.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stare at him, eyes cautiously narrow, searching for a crack in the facade. He doesn’t present one at face, but that’s just Johnny - living his best lie, arrogantly confident. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You slowly exhale, sitting up. “Fine. But don’t get any ideas about runnin’ off.” You throw a finger in his direction. “This is still </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> body, not yours.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No worries, V. Like I said - I just wanna help.” He holds up his palms placidly, a gesture of surrender. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You don’t buy it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, whatever.” You glance around the room. “Now where’d I put that red bottle…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pseudoendotrizine pills are more texture than taste. Gel capsules have never bothered you, and you’re more apt to take it dry than not. Still, the inside of your throat feels raw, and the capsule fights it’s way down.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your vision begins to swim. What follows is a hyper-awareness that’s overwhelming enough to have your stomach lurching again. Every sensation is amplified, like you’re feeling it twice over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, you don’t feel much of anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re sitting in the backseat watching a stranger pilot the wheel, carelessly swerving over potholes. Johnny makes it look like fun, treats it like a playground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, the first place he goes is the mirror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not diggin’ this new cut of yours. Too uppity. Makes you look like some suit’s personal joy-toy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is… odd,” you say, floating somewhere in the backdrop of your own mind. “It’s like I’m watching a movie. Weird.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Told you already, backseat driving’s a real trip. Always preferred riding shotgun.” He lays across your bed gracelessly, bouncing a little, feeling up the covers. “Fuckin’ preem, V. Been a while since I’ve been able to do this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, jerk off in someone else’s bed?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Our</span>
  </em>
  <span> bed,” he says, sliding off his(?) pants. “And no. Meant the jacking-off part.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right… Why don’t we get that part over with? I’m not a big fan of this spectating shit. Makes me feel… small.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Remember this moment the next time you feel like bitching at me.” He hastily pops the elastic band on your boxers, gracelessly shoving a hand inside, fondling. His head falls back, lips parted, eyes closed in concentration. He breathlessly swears, expression going slack. “Fuckin’ preem, V. Didn’t know trannies had it so good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not a fuckin’ compliment.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Depends on how you take it. Just puttin’ it out there - you got the best of both worlds here. Privilege of being a pretty boy and havin’ a pussy to boot…” he curls his fingers inside, languidly pulling out to spread slick across your folds. “Think I know why you’re so damn popular on the streets…You’re exotic. Anyone who’s had a taste just can’t get enough ‘a you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’m sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> why.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of this feels how you expected. Johnny’s motions come to you as a memory more than a sensation, like you’re experiencing them seconds after the fact with a few details lost to irrelevancy. You’re essentially dealing with latency, being fed lossy packages; low-poly frame-by-frame replays for you to ogle at instead of actually experience. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Johnny, this feels… wrong, somehow. It’s too voyeuristic. Doesn’t feel like I’m actually experiencing it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Comes with the position, kid,” he manages between exhales, pumping three fingers inside your hole. “It’s workin’ just fine for me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Might not’ve agreed if you’d mentioned this beforehand…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What’s most interesting is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Johnny’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>perspective. His thoughts - his emotions - all present themselves to you as a reel for you to replay, or pause as you desire, but the influx is never ending. He’s genuinely enjoying this, so far as you can tell, and the dual interpretation between him and yourself is nauseating, yet fulfilling somehow. Like you’re feeding off of his arousal, remembering it differently than he does, despite going directly off of his perspective of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re almost enjoying it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You figure you may as well give some input, since the live feed isn’t really yours to manipulate. “Hey, maybe try slowing down when you - </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, yeah… just like that.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can still hear your thoughts, kid. Loud and clear.” He idly rubs your clit, pulling the engorged hood back and forth. “This how you like it?” His other hand ventures below, massaging your hole before slipping inside, feeling up your inner walls. “Fuck, I’m close.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can tell… Shit - do whatever you want. You make it look so… I dunno - seems like a whole new experience when you do it. Like it’s the first time for both of us.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not like I’ve gotten off this way before,” he huffs, grinding against one hand. “Same concept, but a whole helluva lot different.” Hips lifting off the bed, he groans, shoving three fingers inside, down to the knuckle. “Shit, V…” He comes with a prolonged groan, and it reaches you seconds after. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not quite as though you experienced it yourself, but the memory serves to satisfy; he remembers your insides clenching around his fingers, cum dribbling down his wrist, thighs trembling, and so you do too. You feel sated, somehow, like you had your own minor, proxy orgasm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the following clarity, your consciousness feels exhausted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All you can think of is Jackie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, V,” Johnny says, panting. “Think I just gave the both of us the best orgasm we’ve ever had and you’re already killin’ the mood. Learn to lighten up a little; you might keep more friends.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All at once, you’re furious at him again. Watching him use your body like a plaything isn’t as enticing as it was before. Doesn’t turn you on or distract you from anything. Your patience is suddenly flying out the window. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Time’s up, Johnny. I want my body back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just like that, huh?” He exhales, belatedly dragging himself upwards and fishing around for the bottle of omega blockers. “Course you do. Wouldn’t wanna keep you from your wallowing. Cause that’s so fuckin’ productive for everyone involved.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds a blue pill between two fingers, pausing for the both of you to get a good look at it. “Hope all the pity you’re tryin’ to drown yourself in is worth it, kid. Won’t bring your little boyfriend back anymore than it’ll save your own ass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, but I didn’t ask for your sage fuckin’ advice. Take the pill, Johnny.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure thing.” He rolls his eyes, dry-swallowing the capsule as his vision begins to fade in and out. “You’re welcome for the good time, kid. Hope you liked it, cause it won’t happen again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine by me.” </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hope you enjoyed!</p><p>Let me know of any mistakes/errors I might've missed - every comment helps.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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